


Fuck you, sewer rat

by DJSpidersGeorg



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Other, Stupid Pet Names, in which spidersgeorg projects her feelings with fanfic, this one got away from me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 01:33:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12244551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DJSpidersGeorg/pseuds/DJSpidersGeorg
Summary: Reader feels like shit and takes it out on poor ol' 1990s Pennywise. What's a clown to do?Also known as "I had a headache today and I wrote fic instead of doing something about it". Enjoy!





	Fuck you, sewer rat

**Author's Note:**

> Reader is 18+ in case that wasn't apparent!

“Whats wrong, kid?” Pennywise asks without looking up from his book– _The Iliad_ , last week it was  _Hamlet_ –as you sulk into the lair one night later than usual. You scuff your shoes against the wet cement. You  _hate_  that Penny can tell how you’re feeling without even looking at you.

“I’m not a kid,” you mumble pathetically, equally not meeting the clown’s eyes. 

Penny chuckles derisively, red lip reaching his cheek. “Ah yes,  _that_ would be the reason I’ve kept you around so long.” He ashes his cigar with a tap of his finger before taking another drag.

You continue into the room–cool and damp, but significantly more inviting than it had been; there’s a mattress with mountains of blankets and pillows in the center of the room, a few battery-operated lamps here and there (something you fought long and hard with Pennywise over) and curtains hung where windows would be, giving the illusion of home sweet home. Whatever that was. You’d also somehow procured an old armchair from the dumpster behind a Goodwill, stained plaid and ripped with stuffing spilling out. Pennywise had adopted it, and took to lounging in it after particularly long or boring days, sometimes with you curled up in his lap, occasionally looking at you fondly over the top of his reading glasses (that he did not need). It was almost domestic at times.

Your destination was the mattress; you climbed under the blankets where it was warm and safe, wrapping yourself in as many as you could before breathing became difficult. You could feel Pennywise’s stare follow you as you rolled around, but continued to say nothing. You just needed quiet for a moment.

After a long silence, Penny sighed–you hate that sigh. You feel burdensome, useless. You peek out of the blankets to see the clown, still seated but arched eyebrow on full display, calling your bluff. After a short but intense staredown, he sighs again and puts down his paperback, hiking up the legs of his boxers when he stands and pads over to you on the floor, crouching to just above your eye-level. You know he’s waiting for you to say something, to start the conversation about  _feelings_ and  _emotions_  and everything else Pennywise understands to exist but cannot feel or relate to. You give a sigh of your own. 

Suddenly you feel soft material on your chin and find yourself looking up at Penny, chin pinched lightly between a thumb and forefinger. “What’s the matter, babydoll?”

You want to insult the clown. _“Fuck you, sewer rat,”_  or  _“leave me alone, you eldritch abortion”_. You’ve been coming up with a lot of cruel things that swirl in your head as of late. Nothing feels good anymore, nothing makes you happy or sad, only angry. Everything feels dark around the edges and your head hurts, and the unusual sight of Pennywise’s concerned brow and tight lips pursed together breaks the dam that has been holding back all of it.

“I  _hate_ this!” you lashed out, pulling away from him, “I hate  _you_ , I hate this fucking hole in the ground, I hate sneaking around, and I hate that I have nowhere but here to go, and  _you don’t even care!_ ” You’re openly sobbing, roughly wiping your cheeks with the heels of your hands as your rant echoes off the sewer walls. The headache pounds onward like a proud drummer boy. You take a deep breath, whisper: “And I hate myself the most.”

You hate the silence too. But before too long, you feel yourself being cradled in strong arms, thick legs caging yours under the blankets and your head nestling into the crook of Penny’s neck. You continue to cry even as Penny shushes you, holding you close and smoothing a gloved hand over your hair.

“I dunno what to say, kid,” Penny’s chest rumbles with the sound.

“Then don’t say anything.”

It takes half an hour of gentle stroking, humming, and butterfly kisses before your tears dry up, having soaked the front of Penny’s once-white tank top. Your sniffles are the only noise, save for the scuttling of rats and the occasional draft of air.

“I don’t hate you.”

“I know, peach-pit.”

“I love you.”

“I know.”

You wring your fingers in Penny’s shirt and drift off to sleep, lulled by the humming of the clown.


End file.
